Benson Hedges, Private Eye! in: The Case of the Crafty Craftsman

In this racket, a roscoe and good looks only get you so far — sometimes you need a disguise. So when I staked out the shipyards, I posed as an ice cream vendor. It was a sweet deal: clear view of the wharf and all the tutti-frutti I could eat.


My client, the shipyard owner, was frantic. Told me someone was stealing his tools and putting his crew behind schedule. But when I snuck into the tool shed, the goods were all there. Somebody was toying with me — and I had to find out who.


I stowed away on a dump truck heading to the quarry. It was a soft ride, but something told me things were about to get rocky.


I was right — it was Rocky Turtullo, my old nemesis. He flippered me off, so I flattened him with a right hook. “Cut the shell games, wiseguy!” I growled.

Will Hedges crack the case? Tune in for the next chapter at, um, some point.


It’s Barnaby again, from Christine L.!

Benson Hedges, Private Eye! in: The Case of the Soccer Punch

It was a hazy L.A. morning, the kind of day when the city slept under a blanket of smog and broken dreams. I hadn’t seen the sun in so long, my quills were pale.

I was on my second pack of Luckies when the call came. It concerned Vivien Brooke-Troute, star soccer player for the Keosaqua Kicks. His legs were insured for a cool million, but now those legs were missing, along with the rest of him. Before you could say “bend it like baked ham,” I was on the next plane to Iowa.


Brooke-Troute had been imported all the way from England, and he was last seen enjoying afternoon tea with a mysterious brunette. The table was set for two, but somebody didn’t have time to finish his biscuit.


I went to the soccer field and looked for clues. The place was deserted, except for a lone soccer ball — and judging by the smell, it had been freshly kicked.


The lead pipe stung the back of my head like a nearsighted dentist had put me in the chair face down and started drilling. When I came to, I was at the wharf wearing cement galoshes. “Since you’re so keen on findin’ dis guy, shamus,” said a voice, “we’ll take you ta’ meet ‘im — at da bottom o’ da river!

Is this the end for Benson Hedges? Tune in for the next episode whenever we get more pictures and I feel like writing it!


Christine L. checks in: “In January you featured my hedgie, Barnaby, typing at his little desk. I thought you might like to know that Barnaby now has his own Instagram account! You can follow him at @barnabyhedgehog. Here are a few of my favorite pics.”

Benson Hedges, Private Eye in: The Case of the Kidnapped Kitties!

It was one of those nights when all a tired gumshoe wants is to get away from the babes and bullets and have a nice meal in a restaurant where they don’t pat you down for weapons. And so I was about to drown my sorrows in a bowl of Miss Kitty’s famous five-alarm chili when it hit me: Miss Kitty was gone!

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Now, another Joe might have shrugged it off, but when this nose smells trouble, buddy, I follow it. So my partner and I staked out an abandoned warehouse…

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“Follow me,” I said. “We’re going in!” But he just stood there with that dopey grin on his face. He was too yellow, and I’d have to go it alone.

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When I got inside, I could hear muffled voices, saying something about “a day without cats.” So that was their plan; Miss Kitty was only the beginning. They wouldn’t stop until they’d stolen every kitten from the Internet — unless I stopped them first.

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Can Benson corral the catty kidnappers and crack the case? Will tomorrow truly be A Day Without Cats? Stay tuned for the next thrilling episode!

Photos from “My Hedgehog” by Yoppy.

The Return of Benson Hedges, Private Eye!

In our last chapter of the adventures of Benson Hedges, Private Eye, our hero tracked down the notorious crime boss, “Squeaky” Lowenstein.  Can Benson make this hardened criminal quack under questioning?  Tune in for the next thrilling episode!

You ain't getting a peep outta me, gumshoe!

Remember, no enhanced interrogation techniques, Kate G.

Benson Hedges, Private Eye!

It was half past midnight when I rolled up to the seediest dive on the wharf.  The ocean air sent a prickly feeling up my back—the kind you get when danger lurks behind every door.

My Bentley's in the shop.  No, really.

Inside, I grilled a barfly for information, but she just turned her back and gave me the cold shoulder.  That dame was no lady—and it bugged me.

Just for that, doll, you don't get any hovertext.

Suddenly, I heard a noise in the back room.  I burst through the door just in time to put the bite on some yellow coward trying to escape.

GOTCHA!  Now ... start squeaking, pipsqueak!

For the next chapter in the thrilling adventures of Benson Hedges, Private Eye, visit sender-inner Heather’s Flickr photoset!

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